


A Book of Toys

by mydogwatson



Series: Postcard Tales II [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-17
Updated: 2016-06-17
Packaged: 2018-07-15 16:28:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7230028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogwatson/pseuds/mydogwatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John gets sentimental.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Book of Toys

**Author's Note:**

> It occurs that maybe I should have explained the Postcard Tales for any newcomers. Before I went to London, I blindly selected 25 Penguin Classic Book Cover Postcards. Each day of my trip, I blindly selected one card and then wrote a Sherlock and John story related to the title and mailed it to myself. Some of the titles are difficult, but I did my best and am happy with the results.
> 
> Anyway, thanks for the comments and kudos on the first story and hope you like this one as well. Let me know!

John’s very first toy, as least as far as he could remember anymore, had been a fuzzy blue rabbit with pink button eyes, a somewhat fatuous smile and the stunningly predictable name of Bunny. He had no idea what had ever happened to Bunny, though a trip to the tip seemed most likely to have been his [her?] eventual fate. In a corner of his heart, John still held some gratitude for the fact that Bunny had seen him through some very rough times, even when he had been too old for such a crutch. In an even deeper corner, he kept secret the fact that more than once over the years, especially in the darkest hours before dawn. John had wished that he could still hold on to that lump of polyester comfort.

Sherlock’s first toy was a small red dog. Its plush fur had been worn bare in several places, the damage no doubt caused by an excess of baby love. The metal Steiff button in one ear showed signs of gnawing from little teeth. Two bright black eyes gazed out at the world with far too much wisdom and just a vague sense of disappointment, both of which somehow seemed appropriate.

John also remembered a toy gun that he’d found waiting for him under the Xmas tree one year. It had been an Olde West style pistol, with a white plastic grip pretending [badly] to be carved ivory. If his memory was correct, the gun had come with a stiff fake leather holster and a bendy tin badge that proclaimed him to be Sheriff. Ever vigilant, John slept with the gun under his pillow every night for a month. Up until the day that Harry stepped on the toy---an accident, she always claimed, but he was never convinced of that---breaking it into a dozen pieces.

Instead of gunplay, Sherlock had obviously been fascinated by A Boy’s Guide to Secret Codes and Ciphers, at least if the tattered and heavily marked-up pages were an indication of his interest. None of the notes were in pencil. Each solution [and the occasional comment] was carefully written in blue ink and the tone of the words was pure Sherlock Holmes.

John was seven when he received his first football. The birthday gift from Grandpa [the last before the kindly old man had a stroke while tending his allotment] also included the whole kit---shoes, shorts, a jersey with his name on the back. He spent endless hours alone in their tiny back garden, kicking the ball around and scoring brilliant goals in his imagination. Always saving the match or winning the championship, being the hero of the day. 

At about that same age, Sherlock received his first chemistry set, complete with a basic microscope. He kept his scientific findings in a leather-bound journal, each experiment recorded in the already recognizable careless, yet somehow readable, script in the same blue ink he’d used in the codebook. The same ink he used for everything, in fact.

As John thought about it, his last actual toy was probably the blue and yellow skateboard that he had craved for months. But it had quickly led to a dramatic fall in front of a whole group from school. The fall caused a badly broken wrist, which meant that the skateboard ended up in the Oxfam shop almost immediately. John had not even thought about it in years.

The fingerprint kit could not actually be called a ‘toy’ probably, as it was the same sort used by Scotland Yard. The story was that Mycroft, already adept at working his newly emerging connections, had obtained the kit for Sherlock’s birthday. Whatever. The kit was obviously much used and well-loved. The little bottle of black powder was almost empty. The sample prints on the cards were obviously Sherlock’s own.

Finally, as the long afternoon edged towards evening, John consigned his childhood memories to the distant past, where they definitely belonged.

Then, with a sigh, he set the small red dog, the Boy’s Book of Codes and Ciphers, a chemistry set complete with microscope and the fingerprint kit back into the box and reached for the lid. He would set the box aside to give to Mycroft when the opportunity arose. Surely those things would mean something to him or perhaps to their parents.

John took one last look at the things now back inside the box where they belonged, allowing himself a brief moment of melancholia, picturing the little boy who had loved each item. At the same time, he let himself think wistfully of the amazing person that little boy had become. A brilliant man who had in many ways [some so charming and others just bloody annoying] never really grown up and who now would never have the chance [or the necessity] to do so.

Just before he put the lid back on, it seemed that the little red dog’s gaze had turned a bit accusatory, as if the pup were wondering why John had not prevented its master from stepping off that roof. _I tried_ he wanted to say. _I tried so hard._ He didn’t say that, of course. He didn’t say anything at all.

Unable to face doing any more clearing out on this particular day, John went into the kitchen to make himself some tea. This time he was determined not to absent-mindedly make two cups and then have to empty one into the sink. It was such a waste.

**Author's Note:**

> Title From: A Book of Toys by Gwen White


End file.
